“Teach me what?”
“How to stop overthinking. How to let go.” I watch her face. “How to come when I tell you to.”
“That’s not—you can’t just?—”
“I can. And I will.” I reach out, tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “But not tonight.”
“Not tonight?” She sounds confused and frustrated and maybe a little relieved.
“No. Tonight I’m going to show you what you’ve been missing. Get you right to the edge.” I lean in again, voice dropping. “And then I’m going to stop completely. Leave you wanting.” I pull back. “You’re going to go to bed desperate and frustrated and thinking about my hands. And you’re not going to touch yourself.”
“You can’t tell me?—”
“I can. And you’re going to listen.” I watch her throat work as she swallows. “Because you want to know if I can actually do this. If I can prove those other guys wrong.”
We stare at each other. I can see her working through it—the challenge, the control, the implied promise that I can give her something she’s never had.
“Okay,” she says finally, voice small.
“Okay what?”
“Okay. Teach me.”
“Lesson one starts now.” I sit on the edge of her bed and look up at her. “Shirt off. Then come here.”
She pulls the t-shirt over her head slowly, revealing a simple blackbra. Nothing fancy, but the sight of her half-undressed in this hotel room makes my mouth go dry.
“Shorts too.”
She hesitates, then pushes the sleep shorts down. Black underwear, practical, but revealing the long lines of her legs.
She moves to stand between my knees and I run my hands up the outside of her thighs, feeling her shiver.
“Do you trust me?” I ask.
“I don’t know yet.”
“Honest. I like that.” My hands slide higher, thumbs brushing the edge of her underwear. “But you’re here. You let me undress you. So some part of you trusts me.”
“Some part of me is curious.”
“That works too.” I lean forward, press a kiss to her stomach and feel the muscles jump. “Lie down.”
She moves to the bed, lies back on the pillows, and I follow. Settle beside her so I can see her face.
“First lesson,” I say, running my hand down her side. “Stop thinking.”
“That’s not really?—”
“Stop thinking,” I repeat. “I’m not asking you to come. I’m not trying to get you off. Right now, I’m just learning you.” My hand slides across her stomach, following the curve of her waist down to her hip. “So stop performing. Stop analyzing. Just feel.”
I watch her face as I touch her—the flutter of her eyelashes, the part of her lips, the way her breathing changes when my hand slides up her ribs.
I’m learning her reactions, cataloging what makes her breath catch versus what makes her relax.
When I cup her breast through the bra, she arches slightly. Responsive. Good.
“Can I take this off?” I ask, fingers on the braclasp.
